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D EEP IN THE Abyssal Codex beneath the imperial citadel, Frell fought down the daemons inside him. He hated entering the ruins of this ancient librarie. Even after half a year, the reek of smoke persisted from the firestorm that had swept through it. The flames had destroyed most of the multilevel archive—once the domain of the Dresh’ri, the scholars and protectors of the librarie.

The inferno had killed many and had come close to killing him, too.

Frell’s heart pounded in his chest, as if he were still outracing the war dogs and foul Venin who had haunted these stacks. His hands clutched hard to one another, as if in prayer.

Still, Pratik had insisted that he and Tykhan join him. The Chaaen scholar had discovered a half-burned book, one cryptic but possibly pertaining to the ta’wyn.

Frell respected Pratik’s judgement in this matter. The Klashean had an iron collar welded around his neck, marking his status as an alchymist from Kysalimri’s lone school, a brutal place called the Bad’i Chaa, or the House of Wisdom, where failure meant death.

Besides the collar, Pratik’s body bore other evidence of the school’s harsh tutelage. Beneath his robe, scars crisscrossed his dark skin, but the foulest cruelty of all came early on. The House of Wisdom demanded purity from its students and enforced it by clipping their firstyears, castrating the boys and doing worse to the girls. In the end, those few who survived were rewarded by being collared and indentured to the imri class, to forever serve as chaaen-bound advisers.

Pratik had eventually been unbound, but he still kept the collar—whether out of some misplaced nod to tradition or out of pride—with the iron serving as a symbol of his accomplishment.

“How much farther?” Frell called forward as he followed Pratik down a spiral staircase.

“We’re close.”

As they continued, each of the archive’s levels was smaller in circumference than the one above it, forming an inverted pyramid pointing deep into the Urth. Frell noted bright motes of lanterns held by students and scholars shining in the darkness of the fire-gutted tiers. They marked regions of ongoing renovation. Hammering, pounding, and shouts also reached the central staircase.

Tykhan’s heavy footfalls trailed Frell, sounding like drumbeats on the stone steps. “You’ve made great progress on the repairs, Pratik.”

“The work is both gratifying and heartbreaking. So much was lost.”

“Yet, something was recovered,” Frell pressed him. “Why did you not simply bring it to us? Why must we come down here?”

“You’ll understand,” Pratik said. “It’s on the next level.”

As they wound down to it, Pratik led them off the steps and onto the second-to-last tier. A single lantern glowed out in the darkness, like a lone star in the Frozen Wastes. Pratik retrieved another oil lamp that had been abandoned by the steps. With a flash of flint on iron, he sparked a tiny flame to life.

“This way.”

He set off across a floor whose rock remained scorched and black. Refuse had been shoveled to the sides, waiting to be hauled away. Frell noted charred bones amidst the wreckage. Many of the Dresh’ri had died during the fire.

“I discovered this site after you all left for Hálendii,” Pratik explained as he headed toward the shining star in the darkness. “I feared disturbing it, lest I damage the artifact.”

Frell’s curiosity dampened his terror. “Artifact? You claimed it was a half-burned book.”

“Yes and no. It’s the best way I could describe what I found.” Pratik glanced back, the lamplight reflecting off his collar. “And I could be wrong. It might be nothing, but I found the artifact in the section of the Codex that pertained to the legends of the Vyk dyre Rha, the Shadow Queen. It’s why I had to take you to nearly the bottom of the librarie.”

Frell understood.

The Dresh’ri buried their greatest secret as deeply as they could.

For ages, the Dresh’ri had slaughtered anyone who learned of this legend, reserving all knowledge for themselves. They both worshipped and feared the Vyk dyre Rha.

Pratik hurried forward, as if his discovery were a lodestone drawing his iron collar. “Most everything was consumed by the flames, but in doing so, it revealed what had been hidden even deeper.”

Frell and Tykhan followed. Ahead, the lantern’s light slowly illuminated a mountain of charred lumber, piled across the far wall.

Pratik guided them toward it with his lamp held high. “For months, I’ve been sifting through this debris, preserving every scrap or page that survived the fiery purge. Then three days ago, my excavation finally reached the wall behind it. I thought my search was over. But then a glint caught my eye. It reflected the lantern light, shining past where a few fire-cracked bricks had fallen away. So, I set about carefully chipping at mortar and removing more bricks.”

“What lay behind the wall?”

“At first, it looked like a panel of ancient glass. I thought it might be a bricked-over window, something carried down here as decoration, then covered up later.”

After reaching the pile of debris, Pratik led a crooked path through it. The smell of charred resin and woodsmoke choked the throat.

“This morning,” Pratik continued, “I cleared enough to uncover the edge of the hidden glass. Rather than a thin window, the chunk of crystal appeared to be over a handspan thick. I didn’t know what to make of it—until I remembered your story, Frell.”

“My story?”

“Of another librarie. Composed of tomes carved from crystal.”

Frell stiffened, nearly tripping. “You mean the ta’wyn archive we discovered beneath the Shrouds of Dalal ?e a?”

Frell pictured the vandalized remains of that librarie, of shelves filled with crystal volumes, of others cracked and ruined. He glanced to Tykhan, remembering his explanation, how such places were incorruptible storehouses of ta’wyn memories. The one under the Shrouds had been meant to preserve Shiya’s knowledge, but most of it had been destroyed, crippling her past—enough that Tykhan had come to question her loyalty, fearing she might actually be an agent of the Revn-kree, that perhaps her memory of a traitorous past had been shattered away. He feared she might one day remember her true loyalty.

Frell refused to believe that, but caution was warranted.

“Show us,” Frell said.

Pratik crossed the last of the distance, climbing past a stack of bricks to reach a gap in the far wall. Through an opening in the middle, a waist-high chunk of crystal sat atop a stone slab. The bench itself looked familiar. It matched another slab that Frell had seen down here, one used as an altar in the past.

A chill passed through him.

Tykhan, though, had a far greater reaction. He rushed forward, bumping both Pratik and Frell to the side. “You were correct, Pratik. It truly is an arkada !”

Frell knew arkada was the ta’wyn word for their crystalline books. According to Tykhan, knowledge could be preserved in that form until the universe went cold.

“Who put it there?” Frell asked.

Pratik shrugged. “I can’t say. I asked one of the Dresh’ri, a wrinkled prune of a hieromonk. He knew the history of the Abyssal Codex, having studied it all his life. He claimed the wall had been in place for three thousand years. So, whoever hid it did so a long time ago.”

“But why? To protect it?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. To me, it appeared the Dresh’ri fully trusted their safeguards.”

Frell nodded his agreement, picturing the bridle-singing Venin.

Pratik rotated the collar about his neck, an absent-minded gesture that Frell had come to recognize as contemplation. “It’s almost as if they grew to fear the artifact and walled it away—not for its safety, but for their own.”

Frell sensed he was right. “Maybe they couldn’t bring themselves to destroy it. The Dresh’ri were scholars and archivists. Despite their fear, they might have wanted to preserve it.”

“So they hid it in the dark.”

Until now.

Ahead of them, Tykhan ran his palms over the glass, noting its thickness. He traced a finger along a spiderweb of old cracks. He then used the hem of his shirt to try to rub away some of the scorch from the bricks.

The artifact did indeed look like a giant half-burned book.

Pratik stepped toward Tykhan. “What do you make of it? Considering where it was hidden, it must relate to the legends of the Vyk dyre Rha. It’s almost like this is the seed planted that grew into this section of the librarie dedicated to the Shadow Queen.”

“Could there be anything valuable still retained in there?” Frell pressed him. “Something we can use? Did you not say these arkada can store knowledge over a great span of time?”

“Yes, but this one is damaged.” Tykhan passed a finger again along those cracks. “It may be useless. Still, I will try. But I must concentrate.”

He waved the two men off.

A S THE FIRST bell of Eventoll echoed through the hollow librarie, Frell attempted to pace away his anxiety. Tykhan continued to remain a statue fixed before that crystal window, a possible link into the past.

What is taking so long?

Pratik stiffened, raising an arm. “Look!”

Frell spun around to face Tykhan. Nothing appeared to have changed, but Pratik stepped closer, drawing Frell with him.

Tykhan still held his palms pressed atop the glass. Only now a glow had appeared beneath them, as if warming those hands. It was hard to discern if the shining came from his bronze fingers or from the crystal beneath his palms.

“Something’s happening,” Pratik whispered.

Frell hushed him, fearful of disturbing Tykhan’s concentration.

Slowly, the glow spread across the crystal, clouding its clarity, turning it milky white. The shine reached the edges, then grew ever brighter, slightly pulsing, as if something were trying to break through.

Tykhan finally gasped, while keeping his palms on the crystal. “I can make out something.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Most… Most of it’s chaos. Just pieces. Glimpses. From thousands of eyes.”

“Of what?” Pratik asked.

“War.”

Tykhan leaned forward, nearly resting his forehead against the glass, his back bent by his efforts. The glow grew brighter. The crystal vibrated, casting out a ringing chime that ate into Frell’s skull.

Tykhan continued, his voice drawn and pained. “It’s… It’s an account of the ancient battle among my kind. But seen through the gazes of the Revn-kree. ”

Frell swallowed, fearing this question. “What of Kryst Eligor? Do you see him?”

“Yes…” That one word strained out of Tykhan. “Only from a distance. Atop a mountain. He’s limned by fire… but his shape at the core is pure darkness, more abyss than body, as if his form is drawing all sunlight into it.”

Frell knew the ta’wyn could draw verve from the sun.

Is that what Tykhan is describing? Or is it something more?

Frell longed to commune with Tykhan, to share this vision—though he suspected his mind would be destroyed in the process.

“Such power,” Tykhan moaned, his form trembling in awe and terror. Then the ta’wyn stiffened, as if in sudden realization. “ Too much power…”

Pratik must have noted the change in Tykhan’s timbre—from horrified defeat to an inkling of something else. He shared a worried look with Frell.

Before they could raise a question, Tykhan’s body jolted with a cry of horror.

“No… it cannot be…” Raw terror entered his voice, fierce enough to drive Frell a step back.

“What?” Frell pressed him. “What do you see? Something about Eligor?”

“No,” he gasped out in despair, in denial. “I see another. ”

Pratik stepped forward. “Who?”

Tykhan bellowed in pain, crashing to his knees. As he did, the crystal flared with a blinding brilliance—then exploded in a shatter of glass.

Tykhan got buffeted back, his bronze ringing under the assault.

Frell swung away, but shards pierced his robe, sliced his skin. A piece sev ered off the tip of his right ear with a lash of fire. To the side, Pratik had balled himself up. Luckily, he had been close enough to Tykhan that the ta’wyn ’s bulk acted as a shield.

Then it was over.

Crystal tinkled off into the darkness before going silent.

Frell covered his injured ear, but he barely felt the pain. He stumbled forward and confronted Tykhan. “At the end? What did you see?”

Tykhan climbed to his feet, which appeared to take great effort. The life looked drained out of him. His face had stiffened, like hardened wax. The azure shine of his eyes had faded to a dull glow.

Pratik noticed this, too. “He expended too much of himself. We need to get him back into the sunlight.”

“No.” Frell blocked the way. “What did you see, Tykhan? Who else, if not Eligor?”

Tykhan struggled to free his leaden lips, to get words to spill forth. “A threat… a weapon… brandished by the Revn-kree… glimpsed through a thousand eyes. It rose from behind Eligor, cresting above the black sun of his body.”

“What threat?” Frell grabbed Tykhan’s arm, finding the bronze unyielding and cold. “What did you see?”

The waning glow in Tykhan’s eyes fixed on him, still showing a sheen of terror. “It was the Vyk dyre Rha. ”

Pratik gasped, “What? How?”

“I saw a woman raging atop wings of fire… descending from the mountaintop, ripping through us…” Bronze fingers clamped onto Frell’s wrist. “Eligor… was wielding her like a sword.”

Frell fought to free his wrist, but Tykhan’s fingers could barely move. Still, Frell tugged himself loose and stumbled away—both from the stiffening bronze and from those words.

Frell swallowed and pointed up. “Pratik, get Tykhan back to the sun.”

“What are you—”

“I need a moment.”

Frell grabbed the lantern from the floor and set off. He fled through the darkness to reach the stairs. Rather than climbing free of this foul den, he headed toward its bottommost level. He hurried down, sweeping along the last curve of the stairs. It ended at a set of tall doors, one half of which stood open. As his feet slowed, his ears strained for the dreaded singing of the Venin, who once nested within.

They’re gone now, he had to assure himself.

He forced himself over the threshold. The room beyond was small, carved of bare rock, the innermost sanctum of the Dresh’ri. With a shudder, Frell crossed to a waist-high slab of stone at the back. It looked very much like the bench upon which the crystal arkada had been perched.

It made him wonder.

Had the Dresh’ri known of the story buried in glass? Had some ancient ta’wyn told them, maybe accessed it for them? Is that what terrified them?

Frell raised his lantern, casting its light above the slab. Across the back wall, glowing emerald veins traced throughout the stone, all appearing to radiate from a drawing in the center. It had been sketched in soot and black oil.

It depicted a giant full moon rising from behind the altar. Silhouetted against it was a black beast with outstretched wings, edged by fire. Atop it rode a dark rider, as hunched as the beast itself. The rider’s eyes were stabs of that same vile emerald, glowing with menace.

Frell named this rider. “The Shadow Queen.”

By now, all suspected the prophesied Vyk dyre Rha referred to Nyx. Frell had attested as much in this room, revealing her identity to the vile leader of the Dresh’ri. But in his ears, as if etched here, Frell again heard the dread chanting of the Venin in this sanctum.

Vyk dyre Rha se shan benya! Vyk dyre Rha se shan benya!

Frell knew what those words in the Elder tongue portended. He whispered them aloud. “She is the Shadow Queen reborn…”

The last word stuck in his throat.

Reborn.

But for someone to be reborn…

There had to have once been another.

He turned to the door, picturing the shattered arkada and the secret it had hidden for millennia. According to Tykhan, the past incarnation of the Vyk dyre Rha had been enslaved to Eligor’s will.

Frell struggled to understand what this meant—both in the past and now.

He returned his attention to the malignant sketch on the wall. He pictured Nyx, replacing her with the emerald-eyed daemon atop those wings of fire. Their group had always feared that any remaining Revn-kree would fight to destroy Nyx, to keep her from stopping moonfall, an apocalypse that would destroy all life and leave the empty world in control of the ta’wyn.

But what if we’re wrong? He closed his eyes, hearing again Tykhan’s testament as to who controlled the Shadow Queen. What if the enemy, rather than seeking to destroy Nyx, wants to retrieve the fiery sword they had dropped long ago?

Frell kept his head bowed, weighing the steps forward. Nyx was on the opposite side of the world. Whether she proved to be an ally or enemy in the end, it was beyond their control. Only one path lay open to Frell and his allies.

A goal that had been theirs all along.

Only now it was more important than ever.

Frell opened his eyes, picturing a towering bronze figure atop a mountain. If Nyx ever became that creature’s fiery sword, there remained only one hope for the world.

We must wrest that key from Eligor’s fingers—or die trying.